


Hunger (Apples, Dirt, and Fresh Rain)

by RodimusPrime036



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Atticus is a big baby, Baby has anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, He has a good voice, Hes on The Moon... it's made of Cheese..., I wanna write shaxx singing, Ignore my summery i spilled the oreo milk and now my bed is wet help, M/M, Nightmares, Shaxx is a Good Boyfriend, With Food issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RodimusPrime036/pseuds/RodimusPrime036
Summary: HomiesexualsAlso why don't we drink oreo milk out of a bowl? More space for dipping the cookie
Relationships: Guardian/Shaxx (Destiny)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Hunger (Apples, Dirt, and Fresh Rain)

_ Pain is familiar. Life without it would be  _ **_different_ ** _ , because it is a constant. If  _ **_he_ ** _ wasn't the one in pain, it was someone else- a mother, wailing the loss of a sickly child, a fighter torn down in combat, a scuffle between friends-turned-foe, and lately, there was  _ **_hunger_ ** _. Hunger was  _ **_bitter_ ** _ , a jagged nail that scraped along his people's bellies and dulled their defenders. Hunger was a  _ **_parasite_ ** _ , a gnashing rat that embedded itself within them all and dragged its claws until they were helpless against it. (Atticus-1 mourns for his people; for the weeping families and the pleading children, for those weakened to the point of being defenseless, for the sleepless nights kept awake by the sick, the injured and the  _ **_hungry._ ** _ )  _

_ The sun creeps deeper along the skyline, a gentle warmth combined with the gentle rustling of a breeze through the branches. It would be beautiful, if not for the distant sensation of claws in his stomach. If not for the weakness in his team, the way they stumble and wheeze, how they hunch against trees and shake. These were supposed to be some of his best, but they are  _ **_weak-_ ** _ not that he blames them, he couldn't, not when it was his own failures that left them starving, that left them pained and frightened. (He should have made sure the farmlands were better secured, he should have planned better defenses for their livestock. Those who had opposed them and invaded had been torn down by his own hand, but the damage had been devastating enough, and  _ **_his_ ** _ people were suffering. Maybe that was why he joined along this trip; hunting was busy work, something to take him away from his sickly little group. Something to distract him from the guilt.) _

__

_ Something moves.  _

__

_ It is hardly noticed at first, but he raises a fist, and his team falls silent faster than he had expected.  _ **_Again._ ** _ A distant sound, a snuffling through the rain-dampened leaves, some movement that he  _ **_sees_ ** _ even without vision, and he raises his bow-  _

_ There is screaming. Where was he? Fire licks stripes up his arms, melts the paint off his face, the scent of smoke is so overpowering he is certain he will choke.  _ **_Screaming,_ ** _ he is running, running faster, towards the wails, but they echo until his skull is shaking, until he raises his hands and slams them over his sensitive finials.  _ **_Hunger,_ ** _ it is agony in his belly, (and he knows he doesn't need to eat, but his brain still begs for something he doesn't truly require anymore.) The heat bites at his heels, the flames leave burning spikes along his legs and back, and he runs again, though he has no idea where he is going.  _

_ He does not know how long he runs, the howls of anguish still chasing him, until there is mud under his feet. Heat still singes his back, but when he steps away from the slime, there is only more behind him. That is impossible, because he just took two steps in, but  _ **_hunger_ ** _ bites again and suddenly he is swaying. It is awful, one of the most terrible things he has experienced; the jagged tooth of hunger that tore through him sharper than a blade, a sick infection that sank in and stole at his strength, that left his guts full of sickening  _ **_rot_ ** _ , a  _ **_weakness_ ** _ that left his people defenseless- _

_ The mud is up to his knees now, he was still moving. The flames can't reach him in this soaked bog, but some wicked desperation still heaves him forward. Up to his thighs, his hips, midchest, until he is using his arms to drag himself further. Until his next step finds nothing and he is  _ **_sunk,_ ** _ thrashing wildly against the thick sludge. He tries to breath and sucks down a mouthful of foul slime, thick and clotting, caught in his throat until he chokes. That only makes him swallow more, heavy and  _ **_dirty,_ ** _ it tastes like  _ **_failure,_ ** _ a poison that has him wildly writhing like a snake in a trap. Atticus is afraid here- more afraid than he was when his people were wailing into the night, and he is  _ **_ashamed,_ ** _ because he was a frightening Warlord, and he is so  _ **_hungry-_ **

_ He gets his head above the mud and gags, wheezing through the sludge. He feels  _ **_sick,_ ** _ heavy and  _ **_ill_ ** _ , but not  _ **_full_ ** _ , never full, despite the belly full of slime. It saps at his strength, makes furiously struggling to gasp an agonizing effort, and he continues to thrash against the mud despite the way it sends bolts of agony flaring through his frame. It is hard to keep above surface, the thick mud dragging at his arms and dragging at his shoulders-  _

__ **_Something moves._ **

_ Something  _ **_big._ ** _ Something so big he can't even pinpoint the top, except that it is moving towards him so terribly fast- the sludge has suddenly dropped down to his knees again, and he turns, back to the heat from the flames, and he is running again-  _

_ Except he isn't moving fast enough. He knows he isn't because the mud sucks his feet back down at every step, because he trips and sprawls through the sludge, (and all he can think to do is curl in a ball and wrap his arms around his head, because it is too late now, because the Big Thing is roaring like a cannon's shot, until he can hear nothing but the rumbling sound of  _ **_liquid.)_ **

_ It crashes around him, knocks any air out of his chest and replaces it with a choking flood of foam, expanding in his plating and drawing out a strangled cry.  _

__

__ **_(He pulls back on the bow, knocking back an arrow and aiming down the sight, despite knowing that it wouldn't effect his accuracy.)_ **

_ The foam is like  _ **_fire,_ ** _ like  _ **_hunger,_ ** _ the foam is  _ **_hungry,_ ** _ it is  _ **_his_ ** _ hunger, his hunger that drags him, that throws him like a leaf in the wind, that thrashes him about like a dog with a toy. It is  _ **_his_ ** _ hunger.  _

__ **_(He releases the arrow on a breath, and the snuffling throws its head back with a piggish squeal. It is big enough to at least supply_ ** _ some  _ **_food for his people. His stomach is polite enough not to voice its displeasure that they couldn't eat_ ** _ now. _ **_)_ **

**** _ He is  _ **_afraid,_ ** _ afraid as he is choking, as he writhes and struggles against a force he cannot understand. It is devouring him, the gnawing rat of  _ **_hunger-_ ** _ that's what this is. He is in the beast's mouth, its gnashing teeth tearing into him, inside and out, he is so  _ **_hungry,_ ** _ it shares his hunger.  _

__ **_(The creature doesn't make it far before crumbling, and his team rejoices in a catch. They haul the beast back to_ ** _ his  _ **_land, and despite the ever-present sobs, his people celebrate in_ ** _ something.  _ **_He needed to do_ ** _ better _ **_. He turns back to the trees.)_ **

_ It's so hungry.  _ **_He_ ** _ is so hungry. And  _ **_weak._ ** _ He wonders if it shares in his guilt, if it was simply his shame returning to tear him apart physically as it had done mentally. Perhaps he should let it devour him, perhaps he could sate its terrible  _ **_hunger_ ** _ long enough for his people to flee, maybe this could take the flaming agony away from his own belly, if only he could fill this one. These thoughts don't soothe the terrible fear, don't take the guilt of failing his people, don't make him thrash any less as he suffocates on slime and is tossed through the gaping maw, but at the very least, he hopes it is enough. He hopes it is enough as he gives in against the pain, the constant, ever-present bite, the  _ **_hunger-_ **

**** _ and he is afraid.  _

  
  
  


"-Atticus?" Sleep is jerked away, awareness sinking like a knife in its place. He jolts, chest heaving- (breaths that cause no pain, easy and clean through his vents, and he gasps breathlessly until he can  _ taste  _ the air itself. It is so much better than the mud of his nightmares.) 

"Atticus?"  _ Shaxx.  _ Familiar heat, familiar weight, a familiar hand that rests against his side, a familiar voice rough with sleep- (hunger is familiar too, the pang following from his dream.) "What's wrong, dearest?" 

_ "Hungry."  _ His voice is a wheeze, strained and ragged, and Shaxx  _ understands,  _ because of course he does, makes an odd soft of cooing sound and leans over the panting exo to fumble along the bedside table. (He is warm and  _ familiar,  _ and Atticus promptly throws his arms around the smaller titan's torso and smothers his face in the loose fabric of his shirt.) When Shaxx settles back again he drags Atticus with him, adjusts them both until the exo is bundled into his lap, burrowed into the safety of his shoulder and wheezing into the crook of his neck. (Shaxx smells something like cinnamon, sharp and  _ earthy,  _ mixed with rain and chopped wood.  _ That  _ is familiar as well, grounding as he mimics Shaxx's own deep breaths until he stops feeling like the world is swimming.) 

He knows the light has been turned on by the distant  _ click _ , the Crucible handler looping his arms loosely around his waist and humming softly as he tore into something  _ crinkly  _ behind him. (It releases the scent of  _ fruit,  _ something like strawberries or apples, and he is aware again of the dull ache in his stomach.) Shaxx moves again, lifts a hand close to his face-  _ (definitely cinnamon apple, something with grains)-  _ and speaks, soft and careful. 

"Seems it's time for an early breakfast then, hm?" (And it makes a terrible amount of sense, that Shaxx would always have something on hand for him. It doesn't stop sudden dread from coiling in his belly.) 

"Has everyone-?" 

"Everyone has eaten, dear. And remember yesterday? We ordered takeout from that restaurant you like. We even got that lava cake you've been wanting to try, because there's enough food for everyone that you can just go buy it, already cooked." (Yes, that sounded right. He remembered that the cake had been full of warm, fudgy chocolate, and had been sweet enough that Shaxx hadn't had too much, but that had been fine, because they'd ordered a coffee cake as well. Shaxx liked coffee cakes, because they had cinnamon. Shaxx also smelled like cinnamon, and whatever he's holding does, too.) 

He is hesitant when he draws away; keeps a fist tangled in Shaxx's shirt, fumbles blindly with the other until the other Warlord's hand curls around his own and presses the foodstuff against his palm. (Shaxx is  _ warm, _ warm and safe, just like he had been in the Dark Ages, just as he had always been.) The bar tastes like artificial sweetness and apple slices, more dough than filling, and it does wonders to soothe the furious claws in his stomach. Fake, the feeling was fake, a cruel reminder of the past, a false memory of a sensation he shouldn't have been able to feel anymore. It didn't stop him from shoving the rest of the snack into his mouth with a mess of crumbs. (Shaxx was polite enough not to mention it, instead running his hands over his thighs and patiently waiting for him to settle again.) The ache is gone nearly as fast as it had first appeared, fading, leaving only a distant memory of the no longer constant pain that had once gnawed along his plating, and he heaves a shuddering sigh before crumbling back against Shaxx's shoulder. (He has familiar hands; dull fingertips that painted swirling patterns over his plating, firm touch, heated palms- Shaxx is a wonderful bit of  _ familiar,  _ a sharp contrast to the type that  _ hunger  _ was.) 

"How are you feeling, love?" He is so quiet when he talks to Atticus. Quiet and  _ safe.  _

"Better," he offers softly, scrubs his cheek against Shaxx's and sighs contentedly at the scratch of stubble against his plating. "Thank you." (He doesn't explain himself; doesn't scramble for excuses, doesn't rush to spread his nightmares, because Shaxx  _ knew.  _ They had been there together, had seen kings rise and fall, seen wars and starvation, watched the world fade to ash and drag itself back into the current city- and Shaxx  _ understood,  _ hummed softly and rested his cheek on the cream-colored top of his head, delicate and warm. 

"Can you read for me?" It is an… odd request, he knows, but Shaxx doesn't laugh; he adjusts his grip around his waist, reaches back to fluff up his pillow and then cradles his face in a hand- runs his thumb over the arching plate of his cheek, curls his fingers just under his jaw before slowly dragging the pad of his thumb over his plating one last time and yawning. 

"What have you picked up lately?" Shaxx replies, (and Atticus squirms about a moment; sprawls out and tugs Shaxx down a bit more so he can tangle their legs together, smothers his face in the Crucible handler's chest and gives a broken purr when he rests a warm palm on the back of his head and pets lazily along his finials.) 

"From Ikora," he mumbles, noses more into the scent of cinnamon and freshly rained upon soil. "It's some old poetry, from before the Collapse." Shaxx laughs, runs two fingers over one finial a few times until the metal flicked, thus moving on to the other. 

_ "Poetry,"  _ he sounds amused. "And tell me, am I familiar with this book?" Atticus nods into his chest, into the rumbling laughter, (into the comfort of  _ familiar,  _ a familiar that is soft and warm and wonderful, such a stark contrast from  _ hunger,  _ from cold and pain.) "I'm assuming you'd be fine with just about anything though, hm?" Another nod, he rests his fists against Shaxx's sides and squeezes at his shirt. "Alright, alright, but we need to be up in a few hours for our morning run." Atticus groans into his chest, and Shaxx laughs again, drums a lazy pattern over the back of his head and dips down to press a soft kiss to the black stripe on its center. He nuzzles up into the affection, another fan-blade purr wheezing from his throat at the scruffy stubble against his plating. 

The taste of the apple-flavored bar keeps his stomach at bay, and the cozy warmth from  _ Shaxx  _ chases the remnants of unease from his shoulders. (And his voice is a deep, soothing rumble, telling stories of star-spattered skies and crows, of painted sunsets and oceans, and he finds the idea of waking up early a little more bearable when he remembers he would be awake with his titan.) 


End file.
